All there is to know
by Sliven
Summary: Gríma Wormtongue, former councilor of Théoden, flees towards Isengard. But Isengard is ruined. On the way, he meets someone. This is the story of that meeting, and what became of it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything, goes without saying, right? Anyway... 

**Warnings**: ...No. Well, contains OC. Might eventually go AU, but I think I'll stick to Canon.

**Summary**: Gríma, treacherous councilor of Théoden King, flees towards Isengard, but meets someone on his way. This is the story of that meeting, and of some of the consequences. 

**A/N**: As a researcher, I was curious about all that talking about _five_ wizards, I could find only three and felt quite stupid for a while... Well, I think I might have found them now, or at least formed some theories concerning them... *grins* 

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**All there is to know...**

Chapter 1

_Five in number were the wizards, Istari, and the elves named them; Curunír the White, he who had the knowledge of the rings of power, and was said to be foremost. Radagast, he who loved all the animals and birds in Middle Earth, and the wise Mithrandir, he who comes with advice and decrees. Those acted in Middle Earth until the end of the Third Age, to unite and to preserve, or to destroy; for those Istari were in the shape of men, left to the needs of eating and resting as were the mortals, and also were they left to the weakness of men, such as greed, and the weakness to allow themselves into temptation, and to listen to promises of power..._

_ Five in number were Istari... three whom acted in Middle Earth, two who left for Rhûn, and yet farther, to the east, and all knowledge of them was to be forgotten..._

An exhausted rider, on a horse, also exhausted and foundering, was searching his way through the wide landscape. He was, in fact, in a great hurry, but now his head hung deep. And, as tiredness became superior, he let his hand, instead of lashing his steed and make it proceed a little bit further, drop to his side. He got off the horse, with a great exertion, intending to lead the animal, to save it.

Of course the beast was tired, and there was no possibility of getting a new one out here, now, so what good would it do to have this horse dropping dead at his feet? 

Well, of course the horse was tired... yet, could any creature be as tired as he was, right now? He, who had seen all his efforts get frustrated, was now tired into the bone, into his very soul. Years of careful work, swept away like would a child's weir be swept away by a furious river... and a river it truly was, that had swept him away, thrown him out... at that he snapped his thought. This surely wasn't the place for such pondering. 

He kept on dragging himself forward, slow and yet slower, until he sank down on his knees, drawn to the ground as if he had been pressed by the heaviest hand. No hope left... desperation, was that not the worst? It would be wisest to just lie down on the ground, allow oneself to be brought away by unconsciousness, disappear...

With a mental effort, he shook himself back to reality.

"_Wise?" _

  He snorted. "_Foolhardy, I'd call it."_

Notime for such dreams. He exerted himself, and struggled to his feet; and with an impatient movement he grabbed the reins and led the horse on, to the west, towards Isengard.

Strange were the tidings which had come to Imaén's ear in Gondor, stranger yet were the things she herself had seen and heard in Rohan, but nothing had been as strange as this course of events that she had now observed around Isengard. She, who had traveled wide and far, and despite her humble age possessed a lot of knowledge, had found herself standing with mouth wide open in surprise. She almost had to slap herself, not to clap her hands and enthusiastically laugh out loud.

A saga, a legend... well, she had seen other things, known to be nothing but legends, turn out to be indeed very real, but this... Mightier than a story knows to tell were the Ents in their wrath, as they attacked Isengard and let the river in, that swept away and drowned all that filthy trade of the orcs. 

After a while, when she had gathered herself together, Imaén retired to the rocks around Isengard, to be able to watch the destruction more safely. She did not need to be caught and accused of being a spy at this point...

"_A spy?" _

That thought did put a smile on her face. Had she not been exactly that? Well, if only because the accusations would be false, it might not be help enough if one were to declare oneself to be innocent, as this country was too full of Saruman's spies. And she doubted that few, if any, strangers would be allowed to run off without suspicions if caught. And moreover, having attention drawn to her was not a part of her plans. 

It was surprising enough, that she for such a long time had managed to avoid discovery, considering how long she had been spying... well, she herself would prefer the phrase _observing_... Saruman's doings.

Already in Minas Tirith, the proud Gondorians' capital, had she been told that the wisest scholar she could find would be the White Wizard of Isengard. She had come to Gondor, searching for their wisdom and blind to the fact that they would hardly give a stranger, especially a woman, access to their large and extensive archives. In there, and this she knew for sure, were real treasures, invaluable, of wisdom. History, knowledge more or less forgotten... she clenched her fists bitterly, thinking of all they'd refused to give her. She, who'd had the naive idea that knowledge would belong to whomever claimed it! 

Now, not all knowledge, of course not... no, but those scrolls in Minas Tirith, what was to be read in them except historical events? Perhaps they hadn't taken her request seriously... at least they wouldn't let her speak to the rulers of the city. She could no longer remember all their excuses. The only thing that had stuck in her memory was a comment from one guardsman to another when they'd probably thought her to be out of earshot;

"We have had enough of ferreting about in our books and scrolls by now."

And the other guard had answered;

"Indeed we have. Saruman and Gandalf, both of them've been here poking, and as they both ran off in such a hurry, with neither 'thanks' nor 'goodbye' to our generous Lord Denethor, you'd think he'd be tired of letting out his library to anyone's services." 

Imaén had listened carefully to all of this, but since nothing of further interest was said, she'd left Minas Tirith rather rapidly. Saruman the White, or as the elves named him, Curunír, perhaps he would be more generous with his wisdom? At least she knew where to find him; he was well known, and well spoken of, among elves as well as humans. Many times had she heard the tales about his great wisdom.

Now, Imaén was drawn back into the present.

"_Wisdom?_" she thought, "_Not wise enough to resist greed... Oh no, hardly wise enough to cover his eyes and his ears from the Dark Lord and his promises..." _

For when she'd arrived to Isengard, orcs were all over the place, and she had not dared to make herself known. Instead she'd been hiding, watching, anxious to find out what was going on. Many were the messengers who rode to and from Isengard in these days, and once she'd spotted Nazgûl on the road. She knew about them, another tale brought to life, but she would have preferred if _that_ tale had remained dormant. 

But now her attention was drawn to something new, down on the road. What was it? A rider? Yes, a rider it was, dressed in white, and surrounded by a strange light. He rode towards the gates of Isengard, and was greeted by the Ent who was on guard. It was now getting harder to see, as the light was decreasing, so Imaén decided to climb down, a little bit closer, and if possible try to hear what was discussed. Fortune was with her; as she'd reached a safe spot behind a fallen rock the Ent and the figure in white walked towards her, and she was able to hear their conversation properly. The white character was now talking fast and intensively;

"Helm's Deep is now being attacked by Saruman's orcs, and they will need your aid. Brave men they are, but few, and thinking of the great deed which you've done here, I now must ask you for yet another: to relieve them!" 

Imaén thoughtfully bit her lip. So _that_ was what it was for, that giant army of Saruman's? She had never seen this Helm's Deep, but what castle could possibly resist such a ...one must use the word superior... enemy? But now the Ent spoke;

"Hooumm... well, I, hrrm, I would think that we could spare a few around here... with... let me see... myself left on guard, and maybe a few others, we could spare some. Sure we could."

"Very well then, but there is yet another thing for you to know; a deserter, a spy from Théoden's very court, has been promised safe-conduct to his rightful master, or else to wheresoever it pleases him, but it is my belief that he chooses to come here. In that case, let him into Orthanc."

"Ho-hoummmm, hrrmmm," said the Ent doubtfully, but that had no effect upon the white one.

"Wormtongue is he called, but his right name, Gríma, is the name he will give you if you ask him."

"Ho, ehrm, given such a name, I can understand if he names himself differently. I'll keep a look-out for that one, then," said the Ent.

With this, the man in the white robe seemed pleased, and turned to those little companions who had followed the Ents, and who came running towards him now.

"But Gandalf, where have you been?" cried one of them.

Behind the rock, Imaén stiffened up and listened sharply. 

_ "Gandalf? That Gandalf?" _

So he was a wizard, that one, another Istari... one who could share with her knowledge about times past? Or another traitor, like Saruman? Imaén did not know whether to feel hope or distrust, for could one Istari degenerate like had Saruman, why, so could the others. 

And why would he want Curunír to sit safely in his little tower, despite the fact that he still had a Palantír in there?

It was well known that one of the Palantíri, the seeing stones, had been in Saruman's care, and he could call out to his master for aid, could he not, through this mighty stone? 

"_Care?"_ Imaén snorted. "_Mismanagement I'd call it, and to tempt such a powerful man you would indeed need to be the Dark Lord himself... I guess there wasn't anyone around to stop Curunír on that very day when he decided to look into the Palantír?"_

Imaén felt awkward. She did not know whether to trust this Gandalf, nor his motives. She tried to get a good look at him as he mounted his steed, ready to leave, but there wasn't much to see. The sun was almost gone, and his shining white robes were confusing her eyes.

White was the rider, white the horse... but had not Saruman himself worn white? Curunír, foremost, had he not been that? What did it mean now, when this newcomer came in the same colour? 

But she had no time consider these things, as the wizard now left with incredible speed, shining like a falling star, down the road and out of sight. And now the Ent spoke again, addressing those little ones;

"The Hourns will help them."

For a moment Imaén felt completely lost. She scolded herself for not paying enough attention, but then her subconsious started up, puzzling it all out for her. It usually did that, anyway.

"_The Hourns? Help them? Ah, at Helm's Deep of course, but who are... the forest! Yes, naturally!_ _Could make any army drop dead in fear... wise you are, my dear wizard..."_

Another piece from the conversation she'd just overheard tried to get to her attention. Make anyone drop dead... anyone on their way towards Isengard? Wait, a deserter, had he not said so, the Istari? One who should be allowed to enter Orthanc! And, once in Orthanc... at this point in her musings, Imaén stared to sneak back the way she had come. Creeping and hiding at first, then almost running; back to a den, safe in comparison, where her horse and what supplies she had was hidden. An idea, or possibly a clever plan, had started to take shape in her mind. 

There was no reason to believe that the trees would want to hurt her, if she would mind her own business and keep out of the way. Trees and their powers she knew about, and that knowledge could not be found in old scrolls. No, if only she kept to the fringes of the forest, there would be no reason to fear. 

On the other hand, a fleeing deserter, a traitor, who would run into the lap of this marching forest... well, most likely, he would turn and flee back the way he came. Imaén's intention was to prevent this. One who's not allowed to pass through that forest won't come out alive... and Imaén wanted him alive, that little deserter, alive and safe in Orthanc, where he might actually be quite helpful... 

A vaguely sly smile was on Imaéns face, as she got onto her steed and followed the trail of the white wizard.

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**A/N**: Young, proud, and stubborn. But she'll learn and grow... oh, yes. I've got _plans_... ^_~!

I'm currently editing this story, great thanks goes to my Beta, D'Euly. Reviews are always welcome, and CC highly appreciated, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: See chapter 1. ****

**A/N**: This chapter has been edited, thanks to my Beta!

Chapter 2

If only he could get there soon, if he could only have a moment's rest...

"_But_," he reminded himself, "_there probably won't be a time for resting. If Saruman has not yet heard the message I'm bringing him, then the more quickly he'll take action..."_

He hadn't been able to get into the saddle again, and he would most likely fail if he tried; for he could by now barely force his feet to move. Instead, he leant himself on his horse, like would a wounded man lean onto his comrade.

And wounded he was, if so not with material weapons; but mentally, and this tiredness and despair that gnawed on him was of that kind that menaces never to give in, not even when the spirit gets to rest.

And so he dragged himself onwards, deeper and deeper his head hung, and he was almost unconscious when he realized that the horse was no longer moving.

Gríma felt as if had he been wandering for an endless time through a bank of mist. He therefore did not know whether he was still in a fevered imagination or if he was awake, for as he looked up he could see nothing but mist in this world either. Even if there hadn't been this fog, he wouldn't have been able to see much, for it was now getting dark. In fact, he could barely see anything at all.

All of this scared him, yet, he found this fact rather surprising; that he was still sane enough to get frightened, to be concerned about his own safety.

He straightened his back and tried to orient himself, but found this to be a vain effort; the mist and the dark were more or less impenetrable. The only thing he could discern was indistinct shadows in the fog... And in Rohan, the country of those barren and wide open spaces, the weather was hardly ever misty like this. The more reason then for him to fear this odd darkness...

How far could he have got by now? He tried to get a hold on himself. Despite the darkness, it was not very likely that he should get lost on his way to Isengard; he had traveled this path many a time. Far too many a time.

Surely he would soon come to a place he'd recognize; perhaps he had even made it to the Passage of Rohan? In fact, he should be about there by now, could he only manage to move a little bit further... maybe he could even afford to rest there, being so close to the frontier? If he had made it this far, he probably wouldn't have to fear pursuers. They usually kept their promises, Rohirrim. Yes, surely he could rest there for a while.

Somewhat encouraged by the thought of a coming recess he carried on, a few more steps, only to halt again. Something right in front of him was very... wrong.

"_Trees?"_ An unreasonable fear came over him, the hand that held the reins started to tremble; he could not make it stop. The horse seemed to notice it too; it was snorting and pawing the ground.

"Trees, nothing but trees, nothing to get excited about at all," he muttered, but he wasn't sure whether he tried to calm down the horse, or himself. It didn't help much, either. The sound of his own voice in this heavy silence frightened him even more, it was as if the mist would take any sound and choke it.

And yet, in this darkness, in this sultry silence, came a sound. A sound that should have calmed him, that would have been an undoubted comfort to him wheresoever he would have heard it, but which now almost scared him from his senses, in this horrible forest which...

_ "Forest? Since when is this a whole forest?"_

...Which shouldn't even _be_ here.

A laugh it was, a human sound, so completely out of place in this cursed spot that it would have been enough to scare anybody. Which was partly the purpose; Imaén was familiar with surprise-tactics, the ability to take advantage of your opponent by frightening them. She had watched him for a while, this deserter, and had seen him doing most of the job by scaring himself.

More or less without cause as well, for surely this mist deserved a certain respect, but as Imaén knew, one might see through it without too much of an effort, would one simply avoid struggling, but relax, gaze smoothly... it was simply a matter of technique.

But then, when he let go of the horse to grope for...

"_A sword_," she supposed, "_how foolish, does he actually plan to chop his way through the mist?"_

At this somehow amusing sight she could not help herself; she just had to laugh at him.

She hadn't really thought of the effect this would have on the terrified man in front of her, but as she saw how he got even more frightened, she felt quite pleased by the situation.

Fear can be quite advantageous.

Gríma was shocked by this unexpected sound, he turned, searching its source, but he was too confused, too disoriented, and he could not find it.

"What witchcraft is this? What do you want from me? What?" he called out as he turned, desperately peering through the fog around him. But the answer came from behind. A soft voice, veiled;

"Witchcraft? I doubt it; neither do I think that you are the one they're searching for... this time."

Gríma whirled, a hand on the sword, and dropped his jaw in pure surprise, for the person now standing in front of him seemed harmless enough. It was a woman, but only by the voice could he tell; the mist was hiding any features this character might have. She came closer, and he noticed that she had grabbed his horse by the rein, now holding it beside another; her own, for all he knew.

"What? Who –who are you?" he gasped. He couldn't think of anything better to ask, despite the fact that his curiosity had gotten started now, once he'd recovered from the worst shock.

"Before I can tell you my name, I must demand that you tell me yours," Imaén said.

Even though she knew, she still wanted to hear his answer. Every breath has got plenty to tell, to one who knows how to listen.

"Is that so?" Gríma considered his reply, but made the conclusion that telling your name to this woman, though she might be an enemy, wasn't too much of a risk. Perhaps she was even sent here by Saruman, to meet him? This very forest might actually be the work of Saruman, surely this was the case! Supposing so, he finally said;

"Then, Gríma is my name, son of Gálmód."

He waited for her to answer, his own anxiety bothering him somehow; even if she was an enemy, what harm could she possibly do?

"Then you are the one called Wormtongue," Imaén said, stepping closer.

But now he backed off, spitting out;

"Fools are they who call me that, my true name is the one I gave you! Perhaps you'd now be so kind to tell me yours?"

Imaén gave him a smirk;

"I do not ask what fools may say, what I wish to know is whether you're the one I'm looking for. As for me, you can call me Imaén."

"You _have_ been sent out to meet me, then," Gríma said, relieved, and came towards her once again. "Which tidings do you bring from Isengard? What is this forest, this mist?"

Imaén thought quickly. This was truly favourable! He assumed that she was sent from his master, and it would probably be a rather easy task to manipulate him, to make him serve her purposes. Instead of answering his questions, she turned, and exhorted him to come along.

"Traveling through this forest would not be very wise. We should instead go around it, and be careful not to disturb it."

Gríma did not answer to this. After a glance over his shoulder he shuddered, and followed her without objections.

**A/N**: Coming up next; Imaén and Gríma, both trying to find out what the other one is up to... Later on, a... seductive chapter. Please Review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.

**A/N**: This chapter has been edited. And I love reviews.

Chapter 3

Imaén led her companion back the way she herself had arrived, which led them further towards north than the original road would have done. The air was clearing as they got to the fringes of the forest, and she could now contemplate the man who walked beside her. She had thought of him simply as 'the deserter', but the more she saw of him, the more she had to associate him with the name he himself had mentioned. He was not as tall as were most of the men she had met here, those fair-haired, proud Rohirrim. No, this man was clearly different.

Imaén found herself pondering over him, over his origin; could he possibly be from Gondor? But no, he did not really look like them either. Slender he was, with dark hair and a pale skin... he did not remind her of any of the people she had met. Could he derive his origin from the people of the mountains?

But here she discontinued her thought; the purpose of this mission was not to ascertain this man's nationality, was it? A quick glance at him told her that if she wanted to make any use of him at all they'd better have a rest now; he sure looked like he could use some.

Gríma did not object; rest was something he'd desired for quite some time now. He collapsed, more or less, in front of the woman who had called herself Imaén, on the spot she did assign. They were now at the edge of the forest, where the fog had yielded and given way to more ordinary darkness, much to Gríma's relief.

He watched Imaén as she searched her saddle-bags for something to eat; he did not carry anything himself, except from his clothes. He hadn't even had the time to get his books, and this grieved him badly. For what use were they in Edoras; who would ever read them? His only hope was that they'd still be there, once the war was over.

_ "If Saruman wins, that is." _This treacherous thought came, unbidden, and it was not for the first time either. He tried to get rid of it, instead focusing on Imaén and her doings.

Where could Saruman have found this girl? She was certainly not from Edoras, but he could not remember ever seeing her in Isengard either.

She was rather short, and unlike most Rohirrim, riders as they were, she moved with smooth grace. And silently; he had especially noticed the ease with which she had moved through the forest. Quiet, soft, but also somehow ...with the force of habit?

Rohan was a kingdom of open spaces, and Gríma was pretty sure that this... this Imaén... was not really from Rohan at all.

He could see her rather clearly now, as midnight had come and gone, a slight touch of gray in the east now portended tha dawn.

_ At ease_ in this forest? As far as Gríma knew, only Elves lived in the woods these days. All humans in Middle Earth had built themselves cities and castles. And Elves were tall and fair, those shimmering people of the light... whoever this Imaén might be, an Elf she was not. She was dressed in a dark cloak, reaching all the way down to her feet. It had a cowl, which mostly put her face in shadow. It reminded him of the sort of clothing usually worn in Gondor. But then again, he thought, the clothes didn't necessarily tell truth.

Imaén felt his investigating gaze upon her. She sat down, with the saddle-bag in her knee, picked up some bread and a skin-sack filled with water, which she offered him. It was obvious to her that he was very hungry, but he covered his eagerness most politely. And most unnecessarily, Imaén reflected, as she had already noticed that he carried neither food nor supplies of any kind. Still, she found herself somehow delighted by his manners; she had thought that he would hardly have any dignity at all, and courtesy was surely the last thing she would have expected from a traitor.

Gríma drank deeply from the water-sack, and then he felt Imaén's eyes upon him. She was seemingly... amused? But it was hard to see her facial expressions properly under the cowl.

"It is seldom wise to leave without water, not even when one's in a hurry," she commented.

"True enough, but one who rides with urgent announcements learns how to... choose priorities," Gríma dryly replied.

"Maybe so, but the harbinger who rides off without any water at all is a harbinger who cannot count on an arrival with his tongue safe and sound," Imaén continued, "One must wonder what kind of message that might be so important that the harbinger chooses to leave such a... fundamental detail behind?"

Gríma glared at her.

"The harbinger who chooses not to bring water is a man who rides for his life, bringing his message to his master's ear, and nowhere else. That harbinger would not let his dry tongue slip and his word fly to the ears of a guide; they are far too valuable for that."

Imaén was impressed. He could retort, this one, and was obviously used to slipping away by rhetorical means. It seemed that she had underestimated him.

"Now, pray tell me, what is the news you bring from Isengard," Gríma continued; "with what message were you sent by Saruman?"

Imaén glanced at him, evaluating, and then answered;

"No message came from his mouth to my ear. My task here, as you so correctly pointed out, is to guide, for ancient forces are acting this night, marching towards Helm's Deep."

At those words Gríma twitched, and stared at her in distrust, but nothing in her look was indicating that she was telling him anything but the truth. Imaén saw and read his expression, and she could hardly repress a smile, for she had indeed told him nothing but the truth, though the words were cleverly angled to suit the mind of her listener.

Gríma hesitated, but then asked her, anxiously;

"Then, which are those forces?"

She looked him straight in the eye as she replied;

"That is not for me to tell you. Like your messages are for your master's ears only, so is this knowledge not for yours."

Distrust still lingered in Gríma's eyes. Imaén smiled at him, intending to calm him, and changed the subject.

"We should remain her for a while; the night is not yet over."

Gríma snorted at her.

"Darkness hardly scares me, and my message is urgent. I should be on my way as soon as possible."

"Of course," Imaén sweetly purred, "But if the harbinger wants to get his message safely to its receiver, he should indeed wait until dawn. For even though darkness does not frighten him" –and now Imaén smiled ironically- "nevertheless, there are forces that he should not challenge."

Gríma hesitated, but then seemed to accept her words. Honestly, he weren't very eager to get into that mist again, and all this talk of ancient powers scared him far more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. He looked at Imaén, and again he wondered who she might be. He decided to carefully gratify his curiosity, for he was now certain about her being one of Saruman's servants. This gave him no reason to trust her, but his instincts told him that a prudent questioning wouldn't do any harm.

"You have not yet told me who you are, or how you came to be a servant of the White Wizard," he said frankly, "but I can easily tell that you're not from Rohan, nor are you from Gondor, if I might guess."

"Guess if you like," Imaén said, "that is no concern of mine. You are right, though, it would be foolish of me to pretend that I was from Rohan. And I have been to Gondor, that's for sure, but I am not Gondorian either. Tell me, what would be your next guess?"

"I do appreciate riddles, but this seems not to be a time for such entertainments," Gríma said, annoyed. "Well, my next guess would be that you've resided with the Elves in the woods, though I see clearly that you aren't one of them."

Imaén looked at him, amused. Attentive he was, and clever at stinging with his words... very well, but so was she.

"So, you can see that? Well, one can see a lot if one has got two eyes, is not blind and if the sun is shining," she answered, teasingly.

"One surely could," Gríma quickly retorted, "But considering there is no sun shining over us, I venture to say I can see well enough. Now tell me where you come from."

Imaén was now mostly delighted. She seldom got this much pleasure out of a conversation; she was even convinced that this man wasn't just a simple little traitor. Surely he was a scholar, probably one who with those rhetorical skills had been an esteemed member of Edoras' court. The thought struck her;

_ "They named him Wormtongue... most likely because of this talent with words..." _How typical of these... unsophisticated Rohirrim to give one so clever such a vulgar name.

"From what I can tell of your speech, I'd almost guess that your origin isn't Rohirric either, so trust not only what your eyes can tell," she said. "However, in this case you're right, for I have indeed resided in the woods. But not only in those you might know about; in fair Clairion am I born, the forest located at Lake Claivón, the one your people call Lake Rhûn."

Sometimes, truth is the best lie available. Imaén knew this better than most, but she didn't want him to take her words for plain fairy-tales. By telling him about herself she hoped to win his reliance, and once she'd got that, it wouldn't be to hard to make him expose a weak spot...

A leak, as you might put it, where her mind could easily sneak in... Yes, reliance would be a good way into Orthanc.

And if he didn't trust her... well, she did have access to other means as well.

**A/N**: Rachel-Gardner, hang on for my next chapter, coming right up; the seductive one... !!!

(I don't know how big a sin it is to make up new names for already existing places... But I haven't found any other names for Lake Rhûn, and I thought that it should be called something else than that by the people living there.)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Chapter 4 is up at last... The _seductive_ one... Enjoy!

Read! Review! Make me happy!

This chapter has been edited.

Chapter 4

"_Lake Rhûn?" _ Pure amazement was what Gríma felt as he anew contemplated the woman just in front of him. Could that really be where she came from? As far away as that was, then what on earth was she doing here? But, then again, it would explain her... accustomedness with this forest. That is, if she was telling the truth.

"So, you're coming all the way from Rhûn? That is truly a far away land... I did not know that Isengard had connections in Rhûn."

"There are most certainly other things of which you know nothing," said Imaén dryly, "but from Rhûn I am."

She decided to steer the conversation away from the somewhat risky question that might appear about her actual errand in Rohan.

"But even though I come from afar, you were right in your second assumption as well; I have indeed met with Elves. Not very far from here either. Though it's now a long time ago," she added. She had just recalled Saruman's doings with Orcs, most certainly Elves were not a safe subject either.

But Gríma did not seem to be bothered by her words; his mind appeared to have wandered off on a different path.

"You said that you were born in a forest," he said thoughtfully.

"That I said, in fair Clairion. Deep and wide is that forest, a good land is it to live in," she replied.

"Then a country such as this must seem barren to you, and severe," he continued, inquiring.

Imaén glanced at him. Did he allude to anything specifically? As a matter of fact, she had felt very relaxed in the presence of the trees; had he noticed that her guard was down?

But no, he seemed to be lost in his thoughts; he didn't even look at her. Instead, he gazed out in the dark, over the wide landscape.

"A harsh land it is... a cold land, a land for cold people to dwell in," he continued, but Imaén understood that he was now speaking mostly to himself. He sighed, and she felt a sting of pity for him, for such words often allude to the speaker. But no, this was not a time to let emotions speak, she had to concentrate; perhaps this would be a chance for her to influence him? She carefully moved closer to him, and said, softly;

"Indeed, this land seems cold. But pray tell me: all of the people who live here couldn't let themselves be moulded by the same winds that mould this very landscape?"

Gríma twitched at first, when perceiving her so close, but then replied, stifled;

"Wild is the wind, that blows through their hearts. Stern are the men... and cold the women."

"_Ah_," Imaén thought, "_so that's it?" _ With a statement like that, he practically told her himself how to best pull her wiles upon him. If she'd known that it would be as easy as this... She had to strain not to smile triumphantly as she softly laid a hand on his arm.

"Truly," she purred, "I am glad to have lived protected from such winds; in Clairion the breeze is mild. There, the people are formed by the trees' singing and by the clear reflections from Claivón... a peaceful land."

Gríma stiffened, tenderness was not a thing lavishly spent on him, and for a moment this gesture made him suspicious. But it seemed harmless enough, this hand resting on his arm... so pale, it stood out in bold relief against his darker robes, white and fragile... For a moment he thought he saw another hand, in another place... in another time, as it seemed to him. White was that hand, too, and fragile it appeared to be. But that hand was hard, knew well how to wield a sword. And never had that hand reposed tenderly upon him...

Imaén watched as a number of emotions flew over his face. He was obviously not sure of her intentions... But on the other hand, he did no attempt to shake her hand off. Very well, a conquest...

"Yes," she continued quietly, "a peaceful land indeed. Moss grows there, to ease the wanderer's path, and birds sing the tired ones to sleep."

With her free hand, Imaén pulled down the cowl from her head and looked at Gríma.

"A -- a fair country indeed, it seems," he mumbled. Her look made him feel uneasy, he couldn't see properly... it seemed tender enough, but deep down in her eyes... wasn't there... something harsh? He hesitated, but when she spoke again, he could trace nothing but affection in her voice. It was so smooth, almost veiled;

"A fair country it is... one where even the fleeing prey finds shelter and rest..."

Imaén leaned even closer, and spoke quietly into his ear. He seemed to make a small attempt to pull away, but then he relaxed. She stroked his shoulder gently.

Gríma suddenly felt rather worried. That soft voice, surely it reminded him of something? He shouldn't listen, he mustn't... Yet, when she mumbled in his ear, and he felt her warm breath on his cheek, all his apprehensions slipped away to some vague part of his mind.

Imaén lifted a hand and stroke a dark lock away from his forehead. She let her fingers glide down his cheek and over his lips, lightly, softly, she felt his lip tremble. Close now, oh, so close...

With a gentle grip of his jaw, she turned his head towards her, careful now... he didn't look away. For a moment, Imaén hesitated -- was it pity that threatened to take advantage of her? But she pushed that feeling away.

"_Nonsense."_

And she did not allow herself the slightest smile of exultation as she lifted her eyes, and gazed deeply into Gríma's.

Gríma took a deep breath. Her eyes... so... green they were, as if they would reflect the trees in that forest she'd spoken of. But in the center, there was a ring of yellow, a ring of fire, shining and subjugating... Afterwards, he couldn't tell how he'd been able to see the color of her eyes. He supposed that the moon must have reflected in them and lightened them up.

_ "But there is no moon on this night..." _he objected. Then that thought disappeared as abruptly as it came. He suddenly felt light, unconcerned... and when the woman leaned towards him, he anticipated her, and kissed her with a heat, an ardor which would have amazed him had he only been able to think clearly.

Imaén closed her eyes and graciously allowed herself to be kissed. Combine business with pleasure... well, by all means! And by the way he touched her, by the way his eyes glowed, now without any trace of questions or fears, she could tell that she'd fulfilled her task well; she could tie him round her finger if it'd please her.

Yes, the spell was truly well fulfilled, she reflected with a smile. A smile she addressed to Gríma as she let herself sink down to the ground beneath him.

The last thing Gríma could recall from that night was hardly even a thought, but more of a sensation of long, soft hair... this had awaked diffuse memories of something else, of blond locks... he was confused by the fact that these memories didn't cause him pain, but he knew no longer why that would surprise him, or whom he'd remember. The heat he felt inside was covering everything else, and he kissed her again, and again, this woman, driven by this hunger he did not even understand.

**A/N**: Coming up next: A looong(er) chapter... ! Gríma's arrival at Isengard. Hang on...


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Here we go again... Great thanks to all my reviewers, I am really grateful, and encouraged...

Well, I shouldn't keep you busy, here is a new, edited chapter for you all, enjoy!!!

Chapter 5

Slowly crept the morning light over the flat land; a new day was dawning. Imaén adjusted her cloak tighter and suppressed a shiver; in the world that now grew lighter, the raw air of the night seemed to cling even though the night was over.

The wide landscape was empty now, the Hourns had passed by during the night, not disturbing those who'd sought shelter in the edge of the forest. Imaén felt a sting of loss. After all, they were trees, and finding a forest out here, even one that was wandering... that was enough to awake homesickness, slightly aching.

Now there were no tracks of any forest; quiet and emptylay the land around her. Imaén sighed to herself. This was certainly not a time to bury oneself in such sentimental emotions. The sun would be up soon enough; she had matters to take care of.

Imaén looked at the man who lay beside her, he had probably neither seen nor heard the forest move. Well, she had indeed made an effort to keep his attention elsewhere.

Vulnerable he seemed to her where he lay, even in sleep had he a tensed expression, eyebrows frowned. He was trembling slightly in the chilly morning breeze. Imaén resisted a sudden impulse to wrap her cloak around him, thus warming him. She shook her head, had she not decided to put away her homesickness just a moment ago? Well, same could apply to every irrelevant emotion; he would wake up soon anyway, would he not? And, moreover, she needed her cloak for herself.

Gríma woke up with a feeling of emptiness; it was as if he had lost something during the night. Hewriggled, why was he lying on such a hard bed? And it was cold, he hadn't been this cold when he fell asleep -- nor had he been alone when he fell asleep? A pleasant feeling came for him, but disappeared as he was taken over anewby that other feeling, a feeling that he had lost something important... he hastily sat up and looked around him.

Imaén met his hunted eyes, and saw how he was calmed immediately by her presence. Good, those emotions found and awoken inside of him would make a way into Orthanc through his mind, a way for her to use as it pleased her. Now, she would only have to make sure that every trace was well hidden, so that her carefully made footprints wouldn't be discovered, should Curunír wish to press his little messenger...

Gríma felt his breath quicken at the sight of her. The first rays of the rising sun fell on her atthe very moment she turned towards him, and he was able to see her clearly for the first time. And what he saw amazed him. The first thing that caught his eye was what he had not been able to see in the night: her hair. In the sunlight, it had the color of fire, of the embers in a fireplace... it fell down over her shoulders, beautifully bringing out a face with high cheek-bones, pointy chin and with large eyes which were, were... he swallowed hard.

But, he realized, bothered in his contemplation, he had forgotten her name? He scanned his mind; he could not have forgotten it already? She, who had, well, the _two_ of them who had -- and she had said that -- that... Gríma hesitated. What _had_ she said? The events of the night suddenly seemed confused. Instead, a feeling of hurry started to make itself known, a feeling that he should be on his way to someplace, somewhere else...

Imaén rose, seemingly not aware of the expressions and questions she saw in Gríma's face. She went after his horse, and in an assail of -- pity, tenderness, she assumed; a part of her was laughing at the part that untied her own water-sack and tied it onto his saddle instead. The other part of her hissed at the first to shut its mouth.

_"He is supposed to get safe and sound into Orthanc, is he not? And besides, I am used to fasting and watching. He most certainly is not."_

She could make no objections to this argument of hers; he had fallen asleep almost immediately last night, obviously exhausted. Imaén shook her head, but let the water-sack remain tied to his saddle. She led the horse towards him.

Gríma rose. For a moment, he was over-powered by that strange feeling he experienced just by looking at her, and he wanted to drop every other task, wishing for nothing but to sink to the ground again, at her side... but a look at her face told him to avoid that, she seemed so... repudiating now. He hesitated, and then the moment was lost. Without a word she handed him the reins, and he stepped forward.

He looked at her once more, tried to catch her gaze... And there it was then, there was those glowing circles in her eyes, inciting him:

_"Go, go..." _

With sudden haste, he got onto his horse and urged it onwards. He spurred his steed into gallop and he rode, with no glance back.

She watched him disappear, and she felt so strangely... split. On one hand, she wished to dance and clap her hands; here rode her link straightinto Orthanc, here was the chance to put her apprehensions to peace, and hopefully, she'd be able to break the powers of the white wizard...

On the other hand, she almost felt like she'd want to cry, it was as if she'd sent a dear friend into death... or worse.

_ "Dear friend?" _She snorted. Nonsense. She mustn't allow herself to get seduced by such unimportant things as _emotions_ now, when she was so close to this goal, to actually accomplishing something! And when it came to that, she thought, what was he anyway, but a traitor, a simple deserter?

"_No_," thought Imaén, "_a chance to get into Curunír's nest, that is all he is, this... this Wormtongue."_

Gríma rode with great haste, all the exhaustion he had felt the night before was now gone. For some reason he'd got further north than he had calculated, but the lost time was easy to make up for with a rested horse. Rohan's horses were well known for their rapidity.

Dizzy, turbid pictures came unbidden to his mind; the night past seemed filled with impressions that wanted to make themselves known, but for some reason, they all escaped as he tried to get a better glimpse of them. All he could make out was that he must have dreamt, and that this dream must have been about Éowyn, this proud, fair maiden who'd caught his desires and his heart... but whenever he tried to get hold of it, this memory slipped, untrustworthy, into a haze.

With a sudden despair he pushed these fragments of reminiscences away. Of more importance now was to prepare for the meeting with Saruman, prepare to confess that he had failed, and to prepare himself for the wizard's wrath, which was most likely to come. He had to think methodically of what to say and how to put things; he had to convince his master that everything was not yet lost, that there was still a possibility to win this war through tactical means. And after all, tactics were something Gríma hadmastered.

Northwards now, closer and closer to the gates of Isengard. Gríma felt the pressure grow lighter the closer he got, surely Saruman would welcome him in spite of his failures; after all, Gríma knew the mind of Théoden king. Yes, without a doubt, he could still be of assistance to Saruman... there was no reason for anxiety. Not so far now, to the safety... well, at least security, inside the gates of Isengard.

The morning, which had come with a promise of sunshine, seemed to have changed its mind, for after the first rays of light, the sun had wrapped itself up in haze and mists and the day was now gray. Gríma let his horse trot up the way to the gates, momentarily pondering about that mist. Was there not something he should remember, something that had to do with mist?

Consequently, he was not at all prepared for the sight he met. Where the secure, impregnable Isengard should have been: destruction. Sheds and scaffolds had been demolished, and all over the place were pools of water and mud, as had a violent downpour ravaged here.

Gríma dropped his jaw, all blood vanished from his face, and he felt his legs tremble, he simply couldn't help it. A number of thoughts went through his head, though they weren't sane, none of them could clear out this situation... In panic, Gríma turned his horse, wishing for nothing but escape. As he did this, he became aware of some figures beside him, some small and one tall, high -- treelike? Tree? Gríma felt how panic increased:

_ "Not trees, oh, no, no, not trees, not now..."_ he fought desperately to turn his horse the other way, to get away...

And then he felt, oh, horror, how something grabbed him, lifted him from the horse, and high... it wasn't exactly painful, the grip was rather careful, though that was no consolation to Gríma, who now hung high above the ground. And as if this was not enough, the creature now spoke, demanding answers... Gríma tried desperately to get himself together.

"Gríma is my name, advisor of the king of Rohan, urgent tidings am I bringing from Théoden to the master of Isengard," he rattled on, intensely hoping that this creature would understand him, let go of him...

And let go of him it did; he found himself crawling on the ground, panting. Supposing that his words had been accepted, he continued;

"No one else could be spared for such a dangerous journey, I was sent, but my way has led me further than I thought, a long detour to the north I had to take, and wolves and orcs were following my tracks."

_"Wolves?__ Why did I say that? And north? Though, I came from north, did I not? And all this cursed mist..."_

To all of this, the creature remained silent, making Gríma hesitant. He risked a quick glance around him, for one of his fundamental instincts were to always assure himself that he had a way to escape. But none seemed to be available here, and this creature... thing... it _gazed_ at him... Gríma twisted, uncomfortable. Didn't it believe him?

Apparently not so, for now the tree-creature spoke;

"Ho, hrrrmmmm... well, I expected you to come, _Wormtongue_."

Gríma stiffened and made a face. Damn.

"Gandalf made it here first –- so I know what I need to know about you, and what to do with you. Place all the rats in the same trap, said Gandalf –- and so shall it be. I am the master of Isengard now, and Saruman is all locked up in his tower. You might as well go there and bring him all the messages you can think of."

Gríma couldn't help the feeling of relief that came over him.

"Yes, let me go there, I know the way, so let me go," he prayed, thinking;

"_Fools are they, believing they could keep such a mighty one captured in a tower... surely has he got a plan, a -- well, anything, once I get in there I could, well..."_

"You _knew_ the way, I surely believe that," the Ent interrupted his thoughts, "But things have changed a bit around here. Come see for yourself."

Gríma hastily got onto his feet, eager to get away from this horrible creature. He made a wry face of pain; the Ent had not been too gentle, after all, lifting Gríma from his horse. Limping, he made his way to the gates. But once he got there, he turned abruptly towards the ones who had followed him, pure anxiety in his face, for between him and Orthanc lay water, a river, filled with mud and single pieces of wood from the broken sheds. Was _this_ all that remained of the proud Isengard? When he had last seen it, it had been powerful; mighty and invincible had it seemed to him then, but now...

"Let me go again, let me leave," he whimpered, "my errand is useless now!"

"It probably is," the ent replied sternly, "but there are but two choices for you now: to stay here under my supervision until Gandalf returns with your true master, or, I suppose I should say your _former_ master... or else, you'll have to wade through the water. Now, which will it be?"

Gríma shivered. So that wizard should come here? With Théoden? It would probably be to much to ask for, that Edoras would show him mercy once more -- they most certainly wouldn't if they found him _here_... he put one foot in the water, but as the chill of it penetrated his boot, he gasped and pulled back. Rohirrimfootwear wasn't made for water.

For the last time, Gríma turned to face the one who'd named himself Master of Isengard;

"I cannot swim," he said, still in vain praying for an allowance to leave, anywhere... But no.

"This water isn't very deep, only dirty," scoffed the creature, "I do believe that dirt is your true element, is it not, master Wormtongue? Now, get out there, hurry up!"

Gríma swallowed what self-esteem he had left and went into the water. Cold it was, and truly dirty, the creature had been right on that point. He didn't bother about the hint which had followed that comment, just managing to cross all this water seemed too much for him. The water made him heavy, pulling his clothes, chilling him... it was now so deep that he could barely keep his head over the surface, and he toyed with the idea of just allowing himself to sink, to stop breathing, just fall down in a cold, eternal darkness... but then he hit something hard; a plank, hidden in the mud, but still floating. Survival instinct became superior again, and Gríma clung on to the plank, desperately paddling with his feet.

When he finally hit the stairs of Orthanc, he was too tired to realize that he had made it; that he was really there. Exhausted, he crept a few steps up, just out of reach of the water, that was enough.

And he would probably have remained there, had it not been for the fact that someone inside of Orthanc had been on guard, watching his hardships; someone who cared so much for the message the delivery-boy might bring Isengard that he reached out...

And so, Saruman dragged the exhausted Gríma into Orthanc.

**A/N**: Coming up next: Imaén somehow realizes that she has got a conscience... annoying as it might be to her.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: I think anyone who has read the book will recognize the events in this chapter...

And remember, any review is a good review. And if it isn't, at least it made me happy, which means there was probably something good about it.

Chapter 6

Imaén reached her hiding-place among the rocks shortly after Gríma's entrance into Orthanc. She had left more or less at the same time as he had, but she had been forced to make a detour to get to her den unseen; the sneaker's, the spy's way up through the cliffs.

After she'd taken care of her horse, Imaén had pulled her cloak tighter and climbed down toward the gates of Isengard. Now, she would have to wait and watch, await an opportunity... She hid in the shadow behind a rock, which made an excellent look-out: a place from which she was able to see the gate, watch without being seen.

She noticed the little ones, who had arrived with the Ents. Seemingly, they had found supplies which had made it through the ravage, and Imaén contemplated them and their doings. She felt now that she was hungry, and thirsty as well; damned this pity which made her share her water-sack! She had quenched her thirst earlier in Isen, but now, watching those small creatures eat, this was no consolation to her. However, her feeling of hunger was somewhat replaced by surprise, as she saw one of the small creatures down at the gates pick up a small object, stuff something in it, and then produce smoke from his mouth! She had never seen anything quite like it, but the little ones seemed to appreciate it. Imaén had to choke a small laughter at the sight of their pleased faces; it was obvious that they considered this smoking to be a great pleasure.

When she'd assured herself that everything seemed to be at peace around Isengard, Imaén decided that it was time to find out whether or not Gríma really had made it into Orthanc. Though she was rather certain that this was the case, she'd like to ferret about a bit in there, to get a conception of what could be done... Maybe, there were mighty things, which could be... made unserviceable? Wizards, as Imaén had learned, have got a certain predilection for transferring their powers to a various number of objects. And though these magical objects could indeed increase the wizard's powers, Imaén thought this kind of magic to be perilous. By dividing power like that, a magician would sustain heavy losses if this magical thing should fail him, or should it be destroyed. Imaén preferred not to rely on such aid, whole and within herself she was very much aware of wherein her powers lay.

The magic of mind, which would now allow her an insight into the sealed Orthanc...

Imaén smiled, pleased, made sure she was sitting comfortable, and closed her eyes.

_This is Orthanc. High rooms and halls, black stone and gray, mighty, magnificent vaults... Imaén perceived Gríma's mind vaguely, and searched her way towards it. Her impression of the tower was not that of one who can see it, but more that of a blind man, whose fingertips are gently touching a face; an appreciation of the room, but also the room as it had appeared to the ones who had dwelled there. Imaén felt a wisdom, ancient and almost pompous, which made an odd contrast to the feelings she received of small-minded greed... and of pain. These impressions were clearer, if smaller; humans had suffered in here recently. Not only humans, perhaps; Imaén could trace strange elements as well, but she paid them no attention. She reached her searching mind towards the fresh pain that had caught her attention, that had led her way in._

Gríma sat shrunken by a pillar in one of the many halls of Orthanc. He was faint and discouraged after Saruman's cross-examination; the white wizard had shaken him roughly and refused to listen to any of his excuses. Late, but bitterly, had Gríma learned that Saruman's nature was but little forgiving, and he had not even tried to bring up any of those half-shaped plans he'd nourished on his way here, the shock at his arrival had chased any hope of victory: Isengard was defeated. Shivering in his wet clothes, he'd eventually retired from the furious wizard, and he searched for shelter among the shadows, as he had so many a time before. Heavy drops of water fell from his hair down on his face; they glistened on his cheeks like tears. With an impatient movement he swept them away.

"_So this was all that became of it, years and years of work_," he thought bitterly. He should have known better...

"_But no_," he objected, "_how could I possibly have acted differently? With such a prize, how could I resist?" _

And, also as many a time before, his thought went to the fair, but oh, so cold woman, for whom he would have done anything... had she only looked at him. Saruman had not taken long before utilizing this, but at least it was for a high prize Gríma had finally sold himself.

He sighed, uneasy. Though this thought had deafened his conscience before, it didn't seem that much of a consolation now. Gríma suddenly realized that he wasn't sitting very comfortably, something was poking his hip. Annoyed, he grasped for that bothering something, but his irritation changed into wonder as his hand gripped something soft, and he pulled out the water-sack.

It was wet and dirty now, naturally, as was he, but he knew that it had been made of a light kind of leather, smooth and soft. He had moved it from his saddle and tied it onto his belt because that had been more comfortable, that was right... but where had he got it? He hadn't carried water, or anything else for the matter, when he left Edoras. And furthermore, this wasn't Rohirrim craft.

The sight of it made him somewhat alarmed and, at the same time relieved, but he found no reasonable explanation for any of those feelings. Feelings were in fact something that seemed rather strange to him most of the time; people who, without any logical reason, ran around and did things simply because they _felt_ like doing them had always filled him with wonder, and sometimes annoyed him. Therefore, he was quite disturbed by the fact that he could not explain these sudden emotions towards this strange object.

He contemplated the water-sack carefully, but as it, naturally, had no answers for him, he sighed and tied it back onto his belt. When he came to think of it, finding oneself without water is seldom wise. He could as well keep it.

Imaén let her mind gently touch with Gríma's; she could feel his pain, and then the sudden surprise as he found the water-sack. But what was most present was the fear and that hopeless despair, which surrounded the man like a shadow. Imaén hesitated once more, was it really her right to put more pressure on him?

But again, she pushed her doubts away.

"_And have made all these efforts for nothing?"_

Well, not _everything_ would have been exactly considered an effort... Imaén mentally slapped herself.

"_Concentration!" _

She extended her mind, let it spread out and surround Gríma until she could see what he saw, through his eyes. She could now more distinctly feel, because it affected him so forcefully, how the Istar's frustration and fury pulsated through Orthanc. She realized that Gríma must be rather low in the tower, for very little light had found its way into this hall. Curunír was obviously some floors up, she'd have to be careful not to come to close upon him; surely he would be aware of such an intrusion immediately. Imaén decided to exanimate Orthanc fully through Gríma, well hidden behind his mind. But before she had time to put this plan to an action, she became aware of a sudden anxiety; someone or something was approaching Isengard from outside...

With a jerk, Imaén returned to her carnal reality. Once she'd opened her eyes she could feel how the ground quaked as with thunder, and shortly after that she could hear the confirming hoof beats; riders approached the gates.

A whole troop was coming out of the mist, twenty or more. Imaén moved deeper into the shadow, waiting. They were Rohirrim, most of them, and she saw the other Istari, Gandalf, next to an old man with a majestic look. There was also in the crowd an Elf, as Imaén noticed with a certain interest, and a creature who must be a Dwarf. Imaén had never before met with any Dwarf, nor had she heard the Elves speak well of them. The bigger the surprise then, seeing these two, the Elf and the Dwarf, together; sharing the same horse. Imaén was most curious, and listened eagerly as the company went towards the little ones at the gates. Maybe she would get to know who they were as well?

A sudden thought struck her; Gandalf, being here now, with these comrades, surely this must mean that they, with help from the hourns, had been gained a victory against Curunír's giant army! Her respect for them, and for the Ents, increased.

But, they had marched on the bidding of Gandalf, this new white Istari, who was here now, once more... what could all of this mean? Imaén was suspicious, still, she felt less aggressive towards the wizard now; after all, he was a friend of Fangorn.

And, traveling in the company of an Elf surely spoke for his sake in the eyes of Imaén.

Imaén listened up again as the little ones introduced themselves as Hobbits, and hailed the older man as king. The situation became all clear to her and confirmed what she had already guessed; Théoden, king of Rohan; surely this meant that the Orcs had been defeated at Helm's Deep. She woke from her ponderings as the party at the gates split up; Gandalf and King Théoden with his men went to speak with the Ents, while the two Hobbits remained at the gates with the Elf, the Dwarf and one of the men, who apparently didn't belong to the Rohirrim.

Imaén overheard them talking about food, and smiled again at the little ones, as they seemed to her to be a funny and cheerful people. But as they left the gates, headed for one of the remaining buildings –one which contained food, she guessed- she left her pondering about them and returned to matters of her own.

Was it likely that Gandalf would fight Curunír? Imaén doubted this, but surely they would come to some kind of meeting... probably outside Orthanc, she thought. Imaén glanced around, quickly, and then quietly hurried away to a new spot, just a little bit closer, from which she could be sure to see Orthanc. Once she'd assured that her hiding was safe enough, she planned to enter Gríma's mind again. However, she was interrupted as the Hobbits and their fellows came out from the building and took seats not far from her.

She felt a bit bothered by this; silence was not necessarily for her skill, but it sure made it easier, especially in a situation as precarious as this. And their conversation was rather bothersome, for that matter. As far as Imaén could tell, they seemed to be exchanging stories; they spoke of the Ents and of Saruman.

Imaén was practically born curious, but right now, she wished for nothing but silence; could they not have kept those stories for another time? Were there no matters of greater importance than comrades' doings since last seen? But apparently not so; they smoked now, while the Hobbits entertained the others with a comprehensive account of the assault of Isengard.

Imaén, who had been there, found it not to be as interesting as did the Hobbits' audience; she was absent-mindedly wondering when they were planning to take a leave. But then, her attention was caught as the conversation took a new start. She thought she had heard... she listened sharply as one of the Hobbits spoke:

"...From the mist came a man on an exhausted horse, he seemed to be tired and distorted himself, too. All alone. When he came out of the mist and suddenly saw all the devastation he just sat there, mouth wide open, and didn't seem to notice us at all. And then, when he finally did, he screamed and tried to ride of again. But Treebeard lifted him right out of the saddle, and the horse ran off, terrified."

Imaén thoughtfully bit her lip. Hobbits were vivid storytellers, no doubt about it. But for some reason, she wasn't really amused... she, who had scared him in the forest, surely she could find it funny that an Ent had literally lifted him from his horse? And yet...

"He said that his name was Gríma, and he claimed to be friend and counsilor to Théoden," the Hobbit continued. "But he gave Treebeard such a sidelong glance, and me, I thought he was lying. And Treebeard must have thought the same, he called the man Wormtongue, and he wasn't too happy about that, the man."

"_Shouldn't think he was_," thought Imaén with certain indignation. She felt strangely divided.

"Well, like a worm he crawled at the ground and whimpered, and Treebeard said that Gandalf had said, that the man should be allowed to enter Orthanc. And he seemed to be glad about that, until he saw what it looked like behind the walls, but Treebeard didn't give in, the man had to wade through the water, and in he got at last, like a wet rat!"

Imaén snorted.

"_I suppose you would speak differently about it, were you to wade there yourself, midget_," she thought.

This midget, however, continued;

"I'd like to know, though, whether it was true, what he said, whether he really did serve the king?"

"He did," the dark-haired man replied. "But he was also a spy for Saruman. The mere sight of this, which he considered so mighty, torn to pieces... it must almost have been enough of a punishment. I fear, though, that events far worse than this await him."

At these words, Imaén felt a chill run down her spine, so cold that it made her gasp. For a moment, she lay, heart beating hard, convinced that they must have heard her. But they just kept on talking. Imaén watched the man closely, there was something about him... the more she saw of him, the taller and brighter he seemed to her, majestic. Imaén felt, much to her own surprise, that her hands were trembling.

Careful, tentative, she let her mind float towards this man, an attempt to find out whom he might be; only to find that she couldn't. There was no way through. She should have been able to sense his mind, he was close enough, but a powerful aura surrounded him like a shield, almost blinding to Imaéns inner sight. Hastily, she pulled back.

He was no common warrior, that one... his powers somehow reminded her of magic, yet they were clearly different.

Suddenly, Imaén felt more uncertain and hesitating than she'd felt in her entire life; what he had last said had scared her. And somewhere, in her trained mind, she knew this to be not only words, but more of a prediction...

**A/N**: Dah dada daaah... smirk Coming up next; one of my favorite parts! I wanted to see it in the movie, but _nooo_. It'll be in the EE, though...


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Ok, so I was lying... This update did take long. I have been doing pretty much anything but writing since I last updated, don't know whether or not that's an excuse... ^_~! But, finally, may I proudly present one of my favorite scenes in TTT (book)!!!

Ta-daaa! (I am _so_ looking forward to see this scene in the movie; I hope they won't let me down...) Oh, and also; I couldn't help myself, I found Terry Pratchett's description of 'Where the dragons went' ('Guards! Guards!') so... perfect, I had to use parts of it in here... Read that book! But, hey, read this first!!! 

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Chapter 7 

A ringing voice clang from the gate, through the empty halls of Orthanc. A subjugative voice, mighty and high it clang, and woke up the man who'd been sitting, lost in dark thoughts. 

Gríma jerked. When such a voice calls, you must obey. Few, if any, can resist the biddings of a voice like this. Gríma rose, shivering, and stumbled towards the gate. Once he'd reached it, he hesitated, for the one the voice had called for, Saruman, was nowhere to be seen.

"_Well, he won't get rid of them with less than to respond to their summoning,"_ Gríma thought listlessly.

Since Saruman chose not to appear, Gríma finally pulled the shutter from the look-out window above the gate. He moved to the side as he did this, true to his habit of seeing without being seen. But this window was placed too high; he would not be able to see who had called, were he not to lean forward and look. Which was not his intention, the hardships of this day had been enough, he thought. It would favor neither him nor Saruman, were he to get an elfish arrow through his neck now. Or why not an orc's. Anyhow, whoever had called did not do so again, he would have to answer.

"Who is this?" He asked, "And what do you want?"

At the sound of his own voice he stopped, for it seemed so strange to him, thin and unacquainted. Was this the very voice that so cunningly had brewed the sweetest lies and poured them into Théoden's ear? And Théoden, this decrepit lord, whom had allowed himself to be led astray and get weakened, was he the very man who had straightened up so forcefully and thrown Gríma out of his court? Thrown Gríma, son of Gálmód, out, forced the powerful one to become an exile, a... 

"Go fetch us Saruman, since you've now become his lackey, Gríma Wormtongue! And spill no more of our time!" 

"_Lackey?" _Gríma was drawn back to the now. Yes, maybe that was a word that suited him. Gríma the lackey, Gríma the harbinger, a new message to your master's ear. He shut the window and went towards the graceful stairs which led upwards, to Saruman's chambers. 

As he entered the stairs, he suddenly felt strangely distant, as were he watching himself from the outside. He could see his feet move on, step after step, but it was as would he have seen them from afar. The water sack hit his leg, and without giving it any thought, he reached out for it and grasped it. Strange as it might seem, it felt more stable to him than did the handrail. Gríma shook his head. Most likely, he was going mad. Anyone could loose their sense in Orthanc. The question was what he was doing here at all.

"_To bring your message to your master's ear_," came the answer, "_and to his ear only_."

However, Saruman seemed to know the contents of this message already, he paid Gríma no more attention than an abstracted nod as the man entered the study.

"Gandalf wish to speak..." said Gríma, but Saruman snapped;

"Gandalf Gray wishes for many things, and right you were to name him Láthspell, for he is indeed ill news. But you tongue has served me enough for now, I will not hear more from you. Go to your chambers and stay away, I wish to speak to Gandalf Stormcrow alone."

Gríma lowered his head as Saruman turned his back at him, and left the room. As he looked back into it, he saw the wizard disappear out to the balcony. 

Slowly, Gríma continued to walk up the stairs, on, and on.

"Were time itself measured in steps, I am assured that the two stairs from here and to my chamber would be the eternity," he muttered.

At the last step of the first stair, he sat down, exhausted. It was not the physical effort, but more the exhaustion of the mind, or at least, so he thought.

He was right outside Saruman's library, where invaluable scrolls were to be found. History, runic words of magic, half forgotten tales and legends... compared to these collections, the books he had left behind in Edoras seemed simple. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to look more closely into the wizards books, partly because of the lack of time, but mostly because things of greatest value and power were kept in here. Saruman did not want the Wormtongue sneaking in here without being seen to, which was probably a wise thought. 

But now, Gríma felt a sudden attraction towards the door. While part of him anxiously glanced down the stairs, an other part of him reached out for the handle, the hand still hesitating. Entering the library other than in the company of Saruman was forbidden. Strictly forbidden. But this temptation over-powered him, he simply could not resist. Gríma took a deep breath, pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

He had thought it would have given a disclosing screech, but the door slid up soundlessly. The room smelled of dust. Gríma inhaled it; it smelled of books. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the door had been unlocked, but this did not bother him. Anyway, he didn't seem to have much of a choice now, this was, after all, a library... and Gríma worshipped books. Quickly, he slunk into the library and shut the door behind him. It closed as soundlessly as it had opened.

_This is the library of Orthanc. Here, Curunír the wise has had plenty of time to collect scripts from near and afar. Descriptions of faraway lands are here to be found, for Curunír has wandered far and wide. Scripts of magic, scrolls of both truth and myth... Many books of the mythical rings, of Gwaith-i-Midan, the elven smiths, and of Sauron himself... But history is not Curunír's specialty, in such matters has he often searched his way to Gondor, to the archives of Lord Denethor. _

_ Lord Denethor knows not that the one he welcomes as a friend might be his worst enemy, and yet he despise the one he thinks to be of no importance... one who's now clandestinely acting in Orthanc._

Gríma stood, heart pounding, in the library. It was darkish, the shutters were partly closed, but he dared not to open them for the risk of discovery; this window was placed just above the balcony where Saruman at this very moment did his best to entice his visitors. No, he'd better not disturb. Only look around up here, silent and unnoticed. 

Gríma walked, silent steps, among the bookshelves. The room was large, formed as half a circle. The walls were made of the same kind of black stone as were the rest of Orthanc, only, here silvery ornaments were inserted in the wall, truly exquisite decorations. Gríma wondered briefly whether this room had served as a throne-hallin the past, or if it might have been the chambers of someone of great importance; for he had seen nothing like this in the other parts of the tower. He could see the ornaments clearly even though the room was filled with shadows, shimmering silver snakes, coiling over the walls.

Gríma resisted the temptation to reach out and touch them, to let his fingers follow their complicated pattern over the cold stone.

"_Later_," he told himself, "_there will be plenty of time for this later on..." _

He turned back into the room. Saruman's books... One can carry along no treasure more precious than a great lot of knowledge... And standing before the scrolls in here, and the tales they knew to tell, Gríma felt great reverence. He was a man who thought few things worth to respect, or even less worship; he actually quite despised people who so tenderly preserved inherited gems such as old swords. This was something that Roharrim were true masters of, worshiping rusty old weapons, thought Gríma contemptuously. Whilst books... ah, now, that was something completely different.

His heart was still pounding, and he could feel his cheeks heating. All this knowledge!

He took a few steps further into the room, to get a survey... 

_At a pillar in the library of Orthanc lies its greatest treasure. Truly, a mighty thing. A thing, but not a thing only, for magical things has a tendency to develop a... consciousness, if one so wishes. The treasure of Orthanc lies there... not asleep. Definitely not dead. Nor is it waiting, for waiting implies expectation. This thing expects nothing. It lies... dormant._

Gríma's eyes were drawn to the pillar, and to the black stone which lay upon it. The Palantír, the seeing stone. Certainty run down his spine as would cold water, and he knew that he was here for its sake, for the Palantír.

Gríma shuddered. He tried to get himself together, he would have naught to do with that, Saruman would be furious, would he as much as graze against it.

"_The wizard would be furious, would he as much as find you here_," came the thought.

"I'll... He'll never know, I'm not touching anything..." Gríma mumbled, but even as he spoke, he found himself taking several steps forwards, closer to the Palantír. He gazed into it, and he felt somehow divided; scared, yes, but at the same time fascinated, curious... he lifted his hand towards the black stone, this stone, so mighty and yet so impassive about everything surrounding it...

"What would happen if I were to touch it?" He whispered, eyes fixed upon the stone. He thought he could see a twinkle of light in it, but he was not sure.

"_It is a tool, it obeys anyone who knows how to control it_," he thought.

Did he? He had not planned to think such, nor had he even known it until now...

"Anyone?"

"_Who knows how to control it."_

Gríma shook his head, and, to his own surprise, found that he had now raised both his hands towards the orb, that he stood there, prepared to lift the Palantír from its pillar... 

He looked at his hands, and again, it was as were he watching them from a great distance... his eyes went back to the Palantír.

"I could... I could gain power with this. I could rule..." he mumbled, dreamingly. He felt... elated.

"_And... punish."_

"Punishments towards my enemies... gain influence... I could... I could even bind Éowyn to me!"

"_Bind, and be bound..."_

The Palantír seemed to glow softly from inside, but he still wasn't certain whether this light was real, or if he was imagining it.

"I could build a new powerful dominion, with fair Éowyn as a queen at my side! I could conquer new domains, new lands... I could crush Rohan under my heel!"

"_Crush those who deceived you, punish you enemies..."_

"Crush them and punish them, punishment to Théoden! And... and to Éomer, that snotty whelp!" 

Yes, the stone was glowing, no doubt about it. Like a ring of fire in all that black... glowed brighter now, brighter...

"Théoden, yes... and..."

"_And Saruman."_

"And all of that cursed Rohan!"

_ "And Saruman."_

"Rohan, and..."

_"Saruman_."

"...Saruman?" Gríma hesitated. For a moment, he felt it as was he about to wake up from a dream... 

_ "Crush those who failed you... punishments towards you enemies..."_

Gríma watched as his own hands seemed to be floating of, closer and closer to the Palantír. He blinked, and tried to clear his mind.

_ "Those who have taken advantage of you... as did Saruman..."_

-"Taken advantage..." Gríma blinked once again, uncertainly.

"_Saruman's lackey, Saruman's delivery-boy, with the power in your hands, what would you do? Would the dog not bite the master who beats it? What will the utilized messenger do, when the stone of power lies in his hands?"_

"Punish..."

"_Yes?" _

Gríma bit his lip, furious all the sudden, and grasped the Palantír. He lifted the orb, which now pulsated, glowing as from a fire within. Even so, it was cool in his hands, cool and heavy. The light from the center of the stone was reflected in his wild gaze.

"Crush his enemies, punish the one who dared to abuse," he said with conviction, and turned towards the window. Carrying the stone carefully under his arm, he stepped forward and opened the shutters.

At this, he stopped, peering, as light flowed into the library. He felt doubt now, how exactly were this punishment supposed to be arranged? But he had felt so strong, so certain... he had the seeing stone of power, what could possibly go wrong? And yet...

Gríma opened the window and looked out, only to see a sight which filled him with even more doubt; for beneath him stood not one, but several enemies, and he wasn't sure at all whether Saruman was the one he should claim revenge of first. 

For down at the ground stood Gandalf, who had unmasked him in Edoras and overthrown all of his grandiose plans, there stood Théoden, that drooling fool –well, that is, he _should_ have been that by now- ...and Saruman at his balcony...

"_Crush him!"_

"Crush...?" 

Gríma hesitated. Saruman's promises had been generous, after all, and the reward he had been promised...

"_Fair promises, indeed, but did he ever plan to fulfill them? And in the end, which reward did he give his faithful servant? None but punching and lashing, lackey, punching and lashing..."_

Gríma raised the Palantír, the seeing stone, over his head; his arms seemed to have a will of their own. It was still cool, the Palantír, an odd contrast to the glow inside it, the power that had been revealed... the stone was awake.

From the ground, Gríma heard nothing but fragments of what was spoken, his blood roared in his ears, and he felt dizzy, as were he drunk. He thought he heard some words;

"...black hands are reaching out to get you, Saruman!"

"_Black hands,_" thought Gríma. Well, that at least was true. He had dug into too many foul matters to be able to claim otherwise. His eyes turned back to the Palantír. It glowed at him, waiting. Yes, it did glow, with that power that had belonged to Saruman...

"The power that now is mine," he hissed, maniacally. He was breathing short and hard, panting. The glow was reflected in his eyes. He looked down at Saruman, the stone ready to be thrown.

In that very moment, a scream was heard from below, and a bright white light, blinding in its strength, shone and turned the window into a rectangle of white glow. Gríma lost his breath, lost his grip of the Palantír, and also lost his foothold. Blinded, he threw an arm up to protect his eyes and tumbled back into the room. He fell and landed in a heap beside the pillar which the Palantír had rested upon.

There, he remained for an eternity. At least, this was as far as he could tell; he was completely exhausted and rather shocked. He felt it as had something left him, it might have been hope. It might have been courage. It might have been... something else. 

He came to his senses again the moment before Saruman stumbled into the room. Gríma had time to get a confirming, terrified glimpse of the empty pillar before Saruman saw it.

And then the wizard looked at Gríma. Gríma hesitated. And the Istarí's gaze drilled itself into his mind.

"You... you little worm!" Saruman hissed.

Imaén pulled the horse's rains impatiently. She was mostly annoyed; she felt that all her plans had failed. And, as she contemplated them again, they seemed paltry to her, childish, whom, indeed, did she think she was? To crush Curunír, physically, was that not just too naïve? She was vaguely aware of what Gandalf had managed to do, but her mind had been busy, at work with Gríma's. The whole matter had not at all turned out as smooth and easy as she had whished it to.

Besides, she had qualms of remorse, which was even more annoying.

Well, she told herself, maybe it was all for the best, he could not have hold it for longer, or else Sauron would have noticed him and made him his own. And that was not a mind Imaén wished to argue with. Not in any way. 

She risked a quick glance over her shoulder as she got onto her horse. Around Orthanc, things seemed to be under Gandalf's control, and no pursuers were in sight.

Imaén shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind, she had an undefined feeling that she was fleeing from something. And this she found bothering, undefined feelings weren't exactly encouraging. Fleeing? What from? 

Imaén took a deep breath, and decided that this was simply stress, nothing else. She should get back to Gondor as fast as possible. When it came to that, there was no doubt that Sauron would soon hear tidings of these events in Isengard, and without this support in west, it was most likely that he wouldn't waste more time but attack as soon as he could. Minas Tirith would be the logical target for such a strike, the stronghold which was to protect Middle Earth from Mordor... Surely, this was where Sauron's army would choose to attack first. And if they didn't... Gondor's fortress was strong, and would probably be sealed as a precautionary measure. No matter what Mordor would come up with, Gondor would make a place of refuge.

It was all perfectly logical. 

Thought Imaén. And yet, she wondered vaguely what exactly this castle would make a place of refuge from. Somehow, this reasoning didn't feel very sati factoring. None of the explanations she had come up with really did. But this one was the best so far.

Imaén shrugged. Somewhere deep inside, she was fully aware that she was guilty of denying emotions. But the rest of her made it's best to cover these facts. She sighed.

She was about to ride of, when suddenly a shriek reached her ear. A shrill cry from Orthanc, cut of as suddenly as it had begun.

Imaén shivered. For her, it was as had her conscience slapped her, hard. This cry, this conscience... Imaén bit her lip and cut the thought. There would be wounded in Minas Tirith. There would be matters to take care of in this... place of refuge. 

"One must learn how to... make priorities," Imaén mumbled. Abruptly, she turned away from Orthanc and urged he horse into gallop. Her eyes were hard, and through her mind came the echo of a cry, a shrill cry that was suddenly cut of, again and again... Imaén closed her eyes. She bit her lip harder. The taste of blood in her mouth was metallic, but the pain trifling, compared to the one that echoed inside her.

There is no fortress, ever so strong and mighty, there is no wall, even though high and steep, which is able to remain closed to conscience. 

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A/N: They did let me down! They cut it out completely!!! And it was _important_! I am angry. On the other hand, it's said to be included at RotK, extended edition. I'll just have to wait… *mumble mumble* 

Did you find the sentences I stole *cough* _borrowed_ from Pratchett? Teehee... Anyway; I wish to thank everyone who gives reviews to this, it really means a lot and I get so excited every time I find a new review in my mailbox... You make me so happy!

Also, I know that this did take long, and I know I promised that it wouldn't... so, I'll make no promises for my next chapter, even though I am working on it... there is more to come!!! (And that is a promise!) ^_^!!!

So, let your thoughts of this flow freely into a review, and I'll get a reason to dance around in sheer joy next time I read my mail! OK? 

Coming up; Lots of Gríma and some of Saruman. ^_^!!!


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Late is the hour upon which I've chosen to update this... Too late. Shame on me. Oh, well. In this chapter, I've tried to examine Gríma's character. I think he's so complex... so many layers! 

As always, great thanks to those who reviewed! Special thanks to Proserpina, who nitpicked and advised me to change the quotation-marks.  The chapters might be easier to read out from now on. 

Remember; I feed on reviews, so don't leave me starving! Hunger can drive people crazy! 

Um... sorry. Now, enjoy the story!  

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Chapter 8

Orthanc, a tower built out of black stone and darkness. It points like a burned finger towards the sky, heavy falls its shadow on the ground.

  And yet, from the roof of Orthanc, the stars shone brighter than he had ever seen them before. Many a night did he come up here, searching the cold breeze of the night and the company of the stars, as had he used to wander the alleys of Edoras in the clear nights of winter, or stay in his chambers, standing by the open window, watching the moon. Yes, from the rooftop of Orthanc, you could see the stars.

  From here, the ents reminded mostly of wandering bushes, small, of no importance. Had everything been different, perhaps they would have seemed quite amusing. Had everything been different.

  At times, his mind would wander back to Rohan, to the Golden Hall, but he wouldn't dwell upon the remembrance of Éowyn. He did not wish to think of her. He did not wish to think at all, but found it hard not to; wandering the stairs and dark halls of Orthanc reminded far too much of Edoras. The roof was better, then. He could sit up there for hours; until his legs went limp, or the chill drove him back inside.

  Sometimes, he would sit there until dawn came, watch as the sun spread out over the plain lands and made them turn golden, like honey. But with sunrise came something alarming, a feeling that made him uneasy. It might have been nothing but the morning breeze... but he wasn't certain.

  He did not see much of the wizard, Saruman kept to himself. After the outburst of fury in the library, it seemed like they both wished to avoid a confrontation. And as far as Gríma was concerned, that was just as well. He certainly didn't hope for furthermore experiences of that sort. 

  Well, the library... it was obvious that Saruman avoided it these days, but Gríma still hadn't been back there since... no, better not think of _that_. Not that he thought that it would make his situation any worse if he would go there. In fact, he didn't think it would make any difference no matter what he did anymore. Orthanc was in a deadlock, one where every rule seemed to have lost its meaning. 

  No, that was not the reason... but it was that feeling again, a dim sensation of unease, always out of reach, taunting him whenever he tried to grab it and analyze it, understand it...

  He had tried to remember what had actually occurred in the library. Time and time again had he recalled the situation for his inner eye, turned it, searched for new angles in order to find out what, and more important, _why_. But it had proved to be vain; he never seemed to get any closer to a solution.

  All those dim remembrances! Annoyed, he'd push them of, but they'd keep on coming back, hunt him down and demand his attention whenever he was off guard. And again and again he'd run, to the night with its' frosty sky, for a moment of peace, a moment of rest.

  He felt somehow that he was still on the run, ever since that day he rode from Edoras and left Rohan behind.

_  "As well as I left my dignity behind."_

  Bitterness gnawed him. As did hunger, the food-supplies of Isengard had net been within Orthanc, they had been stored outside, and had therefore been washed away by the furious Isen. By now, the water had gone, and left behind a miserable slush. It was hard to believe that he had been forced to actually swim to get here. Not that this was anything he wanted to be reminded of. However, this left them with what little food had been in the actual tower when the ents had arrived. There was an old kitchen, which contained a hearth in the lower parts of Orthanc, but there weren't many utensils for cooking. Most of the food had been prepared by servants in the kitchens that had lain in connection with the extern supplies, while this kitchen had been out of use for quite some time.

  Gríma, who had never before had the need to prepare a meal by himself, found cookery to be quite a difficult art to master. There was still wood, and also a well, so he had water, at least. The well had most likely been out of use, too, but the water was still clean enough to drink. He had found some meal and grain, and out of those had he managed to make something that sometimes turned up as porridge, but as the days went by, would be more like soup. It was not exactly delicious, nor even good, as he had no salt or herbs to flavour it with, but it would settle down like a clump and ease the worst hunger. He did not know when, or what, Saruman ate. The Wizard touched none of Gríma's gruels, and Gríma had searched for possible hideouts where the wizard might have food stored. He hadn't been able to find any, however. If Saruman did have food, then it was presumably well hidden within his own quarters. 

  And Gríma believed that the wizard did eat something. One late evening, he had found Saruman standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him. Gríma had been surprised, and hesitant, considering whether he ought to offer Saruman some of his food. But the wizard had merely stared blankly at him before he turned on his heal and left, much to Gríma's relief. 

  Orthanc was indeed a grand building, but even so, one cannot avoid one another forever. Gríma used to dine late, before he went out to the roof, to the stars.

  But this night, when he stepped out into the night, he realized that he was not alone. Saruman stood there, gazing into the darkness. 

  Gríma hesitated, as he considered going downstairs and coming back later. Then, he changed his mind, and decided to settle down on the opposite side of the roof. And then Saruman turned towards him.

  Gríma had thought for sure that he hadn't made any noise; he stood there, stiff, awaiting the wizard's next move. 

  Saruman looked a bit absent-mindedly at his servant, as he had indeed been lost in deep thoughts for a while. None could guess, though, what those thoughts might have been; the wizard's dark eyes gave nothing away.

  "Oh. It's you," he said, eventually.

  Gríma lowered his head and confirmed that yes, so it was. Saruman nodded in return, but he showed no sign of being on his way. He just stood there, silent, and contemplated the man who stood before him. Eventually, Gríma felt an urge to say something.

  "From here, one can see the stars," he tried awkwardly. He really just wished that Saruman would leave him alone. 

_  "Oh, but you are alone..."_

Gríma shuddered. A memory. Nothing but a memory. Still unpleasant, though.

  "The stars? Well, yes, I suppose one can," said Saruman.

  Gríma felt that he really couldn't get any further with this. Saruman watched him carefully. Then the wizard said:

  "Many a thing can be learned from the stars, for one who knows how to read them."

  "Is that so?" Said Gríma, interested against his will; 

  "And what is to be read in the stars tonight?"

  "That it will be a cold night," Saruman retorted, and swept past Gríma and down the stairs.

  Gríma stood alone, relieved that the wizard had gone and yet wondering what he had said to displease Saruman. He sat down by the balustrade, pulled his robes around him and lifted his gaze towards the night sky. 

  It did turn out to be a cold night indeed.

  The following evening, lights were on in the library. Gríma stopped outside, not sure whether or not to enter. But curiosity overpowered wariness once again; he opened the door and stepped inside. 

  Saruman was seated with his back towards the door, by a heavy oak-table in the centre of the room. He turned his head slightly as Gríma entered. Gríma resisted an impulse to peer towards the empty pillar at his right, reminding himself that there was nothing to be seen. Which was also very true. 

  Saruman turned his attention at the scrolls at the table; seemingly noticing Gríma's presence without really paying him much attention. Which might not have been the case; Gríma could feel that he was being watched as he moved on into the room.

  He stopped in front of a large bookshelf filled with scrolls from foreign lands; he picked one up and eyed it absent-mindedly whilst trying to find out what Saruman was up to behind his back. He gasped and dropped the scroll as he heard Saruman's voice into his ear; Gríma was known for moving silently through rooms, but apparently, Saruman was once again the master.

  "Ah, the scrolls from east," said the wizard.

  Gríma swallowed, somewhat nervous, but acted calmly as he picked up the scroll from the floor; scolding himself inwardly for being so easily startled.

  "Oh, so you've travelled towards east, master?" He said, mostly to turn the attention away from his agitation. 

  Saruman gave him a sly smile. It was the first glimpse of humour Gríma had ever seen within the wizard, and it filled him with wonder.

  "Why, yes, I have indeed travelled towards east, and yet further. I'm much surprised though, that you haven't already found out such simple facts about my person? You are famous for poking into such facts, that is to say, you _were_. Is that not so?"

  Gríma could feel his cheeks heated with indignation. 

  "I do not wish to poke into any matter of such, _master_, keep your background to yourself if it so pleases you."

  "So short-tempered, Wormtongue, so touchy..." said Saruman, dry smile on his lips.

  Gríma couldn't quite make out that expression, Saruman's words said one thing and the smile something else... he remained silent.

  "...It's no secret, though, that I have travelled far and wide, gathering knowledge from all over Middle-Earth... I have seen Lake Rhûn..."

  "Claivón," Gríma interrupted, instantly wondering where the name had come from. 

  "So it's called, by those who live there," said Saruman and watched his servant curiously.

  "Have you perhaps travelled that far yourself?"

  "No," Gríma replied, wishing that he had indeed followed an old advice and kept his tongue behind his teeth. He did not have a habit of letting his words fly out without second thought, now had he? And where had that name come from, anyway?

  "No," he mumbled, "I must have heard it mentioned somewhere."

  "Is that so?" Said Saruman doubtfully. 

  "Well," he carried on; "they do in fact have a certain trading with the elves of Mirkwood... I suppose any traveller might hear words about them every now and then."

  Gríma sighed quietly; relieved at the fact that he wouldn't have to explain matters he couldn't really understand.

  "I went there in the company of Pallando and Alatar," the wizard continued, thoughtfully. "But they didn't join me as I went back"

  "Master? With whom, did you say?" Gríma asked, quite glad at this new turn of the conversation.

  "What? Oh. Two of my fellow Istari. Wizards. We headed towards east together; we got as far as to the southern shore of Lake Claivón..." Saruman went silent.

  "And what happened there?" Gríma dared to ask.

  "We met with the people of the woods, naturally. The people of Clairion," Saruman retorted. He seamed to be just about to loose his temper, but Gríma insisted;

  "So people live there? In the forest? But what do they live of?"

  "What do they live of? Squirrels, for all I know," Saruman snorted, "I was never there to see for myself."

  "Oh," said Gríma, who wasn't certain of how to tempt the wizard into telling more. And why was it, that he was so curious about this? Maybe that was a question he should seek the answer to before he questioned the wizard further. And Saruman did not seem to willing to speak more now; Gríma had somehow managed to awaken his fury. Again. But still, he wanted to know more.

  "But, what about your company, did they go there?" He asked.

  "No. Yes. I presume they did," Saruman snapped, as he turned away from his servant and settled down at his desk.

  "Now, might I have some peace? I have got work to do," he carried on.

  Gríma lowered his head respectfully and left the library. He didn't dare to try his luck by asking further... yet. He felt that he might have received some knowledge of something important, but he wasn't sure what _of_. What he did know for sure was that Saruman seemed extremely capricious; that he must treat him with great care, if he wanted to get to know... _what_ exactly it now was, that he wanted Saruman to tell him of. Gríma was slightly insecure about _that_.  

  After that night, the candles in the library were often lit. Saruman would spend most of his time here, as he would spend most of the time ignoring Gríma's presence. Gríma would use the time to give himself up to the books and scrolls. More then once, he sent a grateful thought to his old tutor in Gondor; not only was it unusual that a man of Rohan could read and write; it was not far from amazing. Gríma's knowledge of the written language had been a splendid qualification when he got into the service of Théoden King as a councillor. Théoden had, unlike his precursors, seen written language as a resource rather than something unimportant. And if only Théoden had chosen another man as his advisor, his theories would have been proven right. As things were now, writing was a thing that would be looked upon with suspicion in all of Rohan for quite some time.

  Gríma began to actually look forward to the nights he and Saruman would wake through. It meant alternation, a small candlelight in the deep shadows of Orthanc. And, maybe more important; it meant company. Even though Gríma would be the last one to admit that he needed just that. 

  He hoped that Saruman would tell him more about his journeys, but he wasn't willing to admit this either, since he couldn't quite understand _why_ they thrilled him so. Why was it, that he held his breath whenever Saruman would mention Rhûn or Clairion? He had heard tales of foreign lands before, but never had those tales caught his attention like this. Eventually, Gríma decided that his sudden interest for these journeys had come upon him simply because he was idle. And he told himself that he came to the library, night after night, to turn the pages in old chronicles, and read about kingdoms long gone. 

  Sometimes Saruman spoke, sometimes he didn't. But a spoken tale is different from brief notes written in old scrolls.

_  "Tell me a story!"_

It is a child's prayer, a prayer of a saga, of a memory.

_  "Tell me!"_

  Even though Gríma had acquired the written language as an adult, and even though he had tamed the letters and made them his own, his roots still lingered in the tradition of spoken narration which was still so vivid in Rohan. All knowledge and experience was shared as thus: verbally. This might have been a reason as to why he was so eager about the wizard's tales; a memory of those moments he had shared, moments of solidarity in Edoras, when the bard had sung in the evenings and the fire had glowed on the hearth. Those moments had been few, but they had been there non-the less. And earlier; a memory of what kinship had once been like... but Gríma was a man who had a tendency of forgetting that he had once felt such solidarity. Hardened by the lonely life he'd chosen, he found it easier to close himself, and to deny anything emotional. He reckoned that if people despised him, he could as well make it worth wile for them; he wanted them to fear him rather than to feel pity for him. Or fear the power, which he represented. 

  He had been quite successful. If it wasn't for the fact, that he secretly, deep inside, pitied himself and wished for understanding, as might a child. But the one of whom he so eagerly wished sympathy would never share such for a being like him.

  Memories or not, he would now head for the library, rather than the roof and the long lonely nights under the stars. And he longed for stories.

  As time went by, Gríma would try to coax with the wizard, flatter him gently to get him in narrating-mood. It was a game. And sometimes Saruman would play along. 

  Gríma followed the patterns over the silvery ornaments, enjoyed the cold, smooth sensation against his fingertips... Saruman had told him that this was Númenorian handcraft, ancient. 

  So, the noble kings of Númenor had ordered these exclusive decorations... 

  Sometimes, when he was alone in the library, Gríma would rest his forehead against the wall, close his eyes in delight as the chill silver touched him. Ancient, and yet, how timeless...

_  "Tell me a story..."_

  "Pallando and Alatar, did they stay in Rhûn?" He asked.

  "Well, for some time, I presume," Saruman replied. He was sitting at the heavy table, staring absent-mindedly at nothing in particular.

  "But they never returned?"

  "What? No, I believe they went on, further than Rhûn... I know nothing of what happened to them," Saruman snapped.

  Gríma contemplated him, wondering what Saruman was pondering over. He seemed to be more absent-minded than usual, possibly a manifestation of the ever present suspense, which dwelled in both of them, consumed them. Not knowing how long they would remain imprisoned in here; whether their guards, the ents, would leave them starving to death or whether they would be allowed to leave. If so; not knowing what would happen, for which land would possibly welcome any of them, knowing their characters? And as for Gríma; not knowing how much longer Saruman would remain calm and patient before he'd confront him again with the matter of the Palantír.   

  They hadn't mentioned it after that day. Saruman had not seemed too interested in excuses. And Gríma had found, as he retreated to see to his bruises, that he actually didn't have any.

  Maybe, he didn't need to worry more about this incident. But he doubted it. Saruman was running out of patience, he wasn't willing to answer questions, and he wished to be left alone in the library with his maps.

  Tensed they were, of worry and of suppressed anger, as they waited in Orthanc.

  A suspension built of and circulating round the no longer present thing, which made its absence known by the empty pillar in the library. It was a suspense that couldn't last for much longer. It had to burst.

  And one day, Saruman stepped out on the balcony and spoke to the ents.

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A/N: *Da dah da daaah* This turned out a little bit of angst... but not too much so, I hope. It turned out to be a bit humorous as well. Gallows humour, that is. 

Fun fact; I've always found it a bit boring (Don't kill me for using the b-word! Please!) whenever Tolkien writes about food. And here I am, writing about... food. I don't really want to put that thought to a conclusion, though. I'll leave that up to you, if necessary. 

See that pretty little review-button over there? *Wink wink, nudge nudge* ^_^!            


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